A Collection of Moments
by SilverInkblot
Summary: A depository of some longer drabbles with special emphasis placed on minor characters. 25: The second stage of the mall life form was the most interesting.
1. Tick Tock

There were few traits Jeremy Clockson admired in humanity. Punctuality however, was an admirable trait of the highest caliber, one that the Lady LeJean had mastered down to a second.

Jeremy Clockson had never been in love.

He had never seen the point really; socialization just meant less time to spend with his clocks. And people were so unsynchronized. They treated time so carelessly while he treated it like the precious commodity it was. Why couldn't they see what he saw? How could he ever explain the musical tick-tocking of the second hand, the beautiful, methodical precision he constructed his clocks with? Who would ever understand?

And then Lady LeJean had waltzed into his shop and asked for a perfect clock. She _knew_ about time and the tick of the universe. Truly, she must have understood how valuable time was; she must have never wasted a second of her life. Jeremy sighed deeply and wondered if this was what all the fuss was about.

He's more right than he knows.

* * *

Lady LeJean was confused.

As an Auditor, she had understood things. Everything had a place and what didn't have a place was removed. This was only logical. Imperfection was made perfect.

Humanity was imperfection made real. Humans had to breathe, to eat, to blink, to move, to sleep to survive. And, absurd as it was, they had to do other things. To draw, to sing, to laugh, to read, to play, to hope, to dream. To be _**irrational**_. And the crowner of them all, they had to love.

Lady LeJean hadn't even had a _**concept**_ of love until the clockmaker smiled at her.

How could she justify it to the others? How do you rationalize the irrational, explain what you yourself do not understand? The tactility of granite versus silk, the taste of butter, the gnawing sensation of hunger, the chaotic tumble of human emotion that shifted from indifference to warmth over something as simple as a smile. A trivial twitch of muscle at the corners of the mouth.

She wanted _more_. More smiles, more conversations, more _time_. Time with him. Each moment was precious and unique and would never happen again. Ever. And she was running out of moments.

Once she would have defined a life as a collection of time accumulated in a body. Now she wonders if a collection of _moments_ would be more accurate.

She's more right than she knows.

* * *

_Disclaimer goes here._

_Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go drown myself for being such a sap. - SilverInkblot_


	2. Troll Games

_Troll games are closely bound with troll religion and some are quite hard to understand. There is a game like a simplified form of chess, in which play consists of putting the pieces on the board and waiting for them to move, and another in which stones are thrown up into the air and players bet on whether or not they will come down._

_- Thud: An Historical Perspective_

* * *

Two trolls sat on opposite sides of the gameboard. Mr. Shine had started Brick on the troll side – small steps after all, one drop at a time. Nevertheless, he was getting better. When Brick began learning to play, a single move could take an entire day. The effects of Slab and Slide were still being felt, but countered by the tutelage of Detritus and the loving care of Ruby. For the first time, Brick was learning.

"You must choose your own way Brick," Mr. Shine was a patient teacher. "You must not wait for the pieces to move. The stones will always come back down. The game lies in deciding where they will land."

Brick had tested this many times; indeed the stones _**always**_ came back down. It was truly amazing.

"I fink…"

"Yes?"

"I fink dat, de game's a lot more fun since I'm a player and not a piece."

* * *

The games continued.

"Do you see Brick?"

"I fink so. If I go here," he put a large finger on a square, "den de king gets away. An' if I goes here, I lose too many trolls."

"Then what is the most advantageous position?" He quickly modified this statement at Brick's confused expression. "What's the best move?"

Brick studied the board closely.

"… de one dat keeps de most trolls safe?"

Mr. Shine was impressed. Brick was beginning to think like Commander Vimes.

* * *

_Short, yes, but I think it stands well on its own. -SilverInkblot_


	3. Love and Chocolate

Anthromorphic personifications took little interest in humanity although that wasn't quite the right way to put it. Rather their business was humans, but it was a very impersonal business on the whole. They usually didn't get involved with the day-to-day aspects of humanity.

But, sometimes, humanity involves itself with them.

* * *

He brings her chocolates. Never roses or jewels or trinkets, but always chocolates. Susan doesn't mind. You can have too much of a good thing, but there's never too much chocolate.

She accepted the box with a smile and a thank you and picked a chocolate from the center. Biting in, she recognized the taste immediately and it was all she could do not to spit it back out right in front of him. Nougat! Why did it always have to be –

She halted her inner monologue at the sly smile creeping across his face and knew – they were all nougat. Susan began to tell him off in the voice but was stopped by the sticky fluff clinging inside her mouth and by Lobsang's lips on her own and suddenly decided she was in a forgiving mood today.

* * *

Everything about Susan was neat and orderly and decidedly _normal_. Her shoes were shiny, her nails clipped, her clothes smooth and unruffled. She was trying too hard.

Susan was very much like her Grandfather in that regard.

She pulled out the chocolate box. The intent normalness had waned of late. She didn't care so much that her hair always escaped the bun she tried so hard to fasten it into, or that the Death of Rats occasionally snuck a truffle just to irk her. She wondered if Lobsang had anything to do with it. Susan popped the chocolate into her mouth and tasted marshmallow within the melting ooze.

She wondered if she was going soft.

Susan offered these thoughts to Lobsang, who only smiled and decided not to mention the chocolate smudges at the corners of her mouth, preferring to remove them himself. He knew she left them there on purpose.

* * *

She hadn't seen Lobsang for several months now.

Anthromorphic personifications were busy of course. It would have been selfish of him to put her before his duties as the son of Time. It was selfish of her to want him to.

Susan stared into her almost empty chocolate box and picked up the last square from its compartment. Dark chocolate. It tasted heavy and bittersweet on her tongue. It tasted sad. For the first time, Susan wondered if her Grandfather had ever loved anyone.

* * *

The presence in her chest is painful, each moment stretched across time. Something _mortal_ aches.

She is her Grandfather's granddaughter and will not wait. The next time she sees him it will not be as an immortal trying to pass for human. She will be Susan and all that entails.

In the deeps of the night she thinks of chocolate and nougat and perfect moments, all the perfect moments in the world. There's a rustle of something_ not quite there_ and there's a box on the ottoman that wasn't there before. She picks it up and slides off the lid.

Every nougat has been removed.

* * *

_Oh dear. I'm writing romance again. It's all Ajac's fault. - SilverInkblot_


	4. In Uberwald, Forgiveness believe in YOU!

It was dark.

Not outside – outside the sun was shining on a rare cloudless day in Uberwald.

In the smithy, or more precisely, in the mind of Nutt, it was dark. It was the kind of darkness that hid behind stars and crept in dwarf tunnels.

Nutt didn't have a name for it, but it frightened him. It's terrifying to realize you don't know your own mind, what's hiding inside it. It's the same feeling as when you _know_ there's something under the bed only there's no poker lying conveniently nearby.

Even at that, a poker through the skull hurts something awful.

That kind of darkness was hard to ignore, but Nutt had learned to banish it to the far corners of his mind by, well, learning. First he learned he grew stronger by lifting objects. Tongs and nails progressed to hammers and lengths of chain and finally to the anvil. Soon, there was nothing in the smithy he could not lift and he left, carrying the anvil under one arm.

It wasn't long before he was caught and dragged back into town. Things might have ended very badly for Nutt indeed were it not for a traveling priest.

* * *

Mightily Oats was a great believer in forgiveness. He was a great believer in many things in fact, but slavery was not one of them.

"Which of you claims ownership of this creature?" his voice projected across the square loudly and calmly, but with a note of anger that made any one person hesitant to speak up. It would be very dangerous to claim ownership of Nutt at this moment.

"Well? Anyone?" and this time no one dared so much as breathe; Oats had very innocently slung his battleaxe over one shoulder.

"No one at all?" Oats seemed mockingly disappointed. "Well then. . ." He raised his axe high.

"Finders keepers," and brought Forgiveness down on Nutt's chains.

* * *

_My good friend Ajac got a kick out of this. I may have to work with Mightily Oats more X3 -SilverInkblot_


	5. Almost Mutual

Lady Ramkin glanced about in the weak candlelight. The palace (what she could see of it anyway) was in various stages of destruction, culminating here in the great hall. The golden hoard glinted in the middle of the hall looking incredibly out of place, even here. Overhead the dragon slumbered – but not for long. The dragon shifted, unfolding its wings slowly and stretching its neck as far as anatomy would allow as if just showing off how large it was before turning its snout to face Sybil.

_This is the best they could do?_

"I will have you know, **_your majesty_**, that the Ramkins are the oldest, wealthiest family in the city." Sybil considered nobility frivolous at best, but she didn't have to put up with **that** attitude.

_And you come here… voluntarily I believe is the word._

Sybil flared. "I was forced from my home by six men who threatened _my_ dragons. You expect me to be _happy_ about it?!"

The dragon narrowed its eyes, lowering its head to Sybil's level. She could see herself reflected in its pupils.

_**Your**__ dragons?_

"Yes. _My _dragons. They threatened _my_ dragons."

So that was the scent. The king could smell the dragon essence all around her; so much so that there had been a moment of confusion when she first walked in. She carried dragon with her.

The king was almost sorry to eat her.


	6. Intelligent Life

Hex worried Ponder Stibbons.

It wasn't that he didn't like Hex. There was just something faintly unnerving about a machine that seemed to build itself when no one was looking (it probably had something to do with quantum). Every time he turned around there was some new component to the mechanism that didn't have any apparent purpose but without which Hex either wouldn't work or refused to work without. And yet, despite all the trappings and accessories and strangeness, it **did** work – and that was most worrying of all. Ponder felt the frustration building. Honestly, some days Hex was the only member of the faculty that he could have an intelligent conversation with (and it was a member of the faculty now – he had a hat. Ponder believed the Bursar had put it there in a moment of either his usual lucidness or had a rare moment of extreme clarity that the other wizards would have quite a time indeed with Hex as an official member).

Ponder sat at the keyboard, resisting the urge to bang his head against it. Hex began whirring and clicking. Ponder glanced at the writing emerging.

+++ Sadness? +++

"Do you realize you're the only one in this university that actually operates properly? What's that like? To be a working conscious, thinking engine in a place like this?"

Hex began whirring again; various parts and pieces inside moved about, the mouse squeaked, and the ant bustled in their tubes. Hex was taking a long time with an answer. Finally:

+++ I Don't Know. What Is It Like Being Human? +++

Ponder sighed again. Somehow, that wasn't the answer he wanted. Hex wrote again.

+++ What Is It Like Being Human? +++

"What? Oh – it wasn't a rhetorical question?"

+++ No. +++

"Well, err… it's – I'm not sure I'm qualified to answer that question."

+++ You Are Not Human? +++

"No, I – look, it's very hard to explain alright?" Was that sarcasm? Hex must have learned that when His Lordship dropped by for a visit concerning the raining bananas. They never did find Johnson after he wandered into the library. Hex wrote once more.

+++ I Suspect It Is Like Being A Thinking Machine. But With Mobility. +++

Ponder pushed his hair back from his forehead and leaned heavily on the keyboard. It worried him to think Hex just might be right.

* * *

_I do love Hex. I have such fun writing his character. And yes, that was a reference to Iconographs you saw. Raining bananas = instant comedy :)_

_- SilverInkblot_


	7. The Blood Drive

Count Magpyr (the old one that is) didn't particularly approve of so-called "modernity," especially in light of recent events with the newer count. But modernity is not the same thing as moving with the times and a century dead was nothing. Change was something that happened, not something you forced. Times were, more or less, the same everywhen.

"Gentlemen, please. Zis is a friendly visit;" the Count's tone made it clear that it could become very unfriendly _very quickly_ indeed. "I am only here to make a few social calls."

"No bitin'?"

"He don't look the type Ivan. That's the _old_ Count there. The one our grandparents knew. He don't need a ribbon and all."

The Count arched an eyebrow. "A ribbon?"

"Yeah. Temperance League. They get cards and everything."

The Count didn't say anything. He would have to ask Zolana about this.

* * *

Zolana Cross was a distant relative of the Count, but distance means very little in family lines. She was a younger vampire, but he had been very fond of her back in the day and sent off a letter shortly after waking up. She had changed little over the decades and was happy to give her uncle a tour of the city.

"Zis 'Temperance League' Zolana – tell me about it. It's nothing like vhat my son vas trying to bring about is it? The unspoken implication hung in the air: _it had netter not be, or I shall have to do something about it._

"No uncle. He relied on… sacrifice." Zolana, like most of the family, looked upon the practice with distaste. "Ve give up blood altogether."

"But Zolana," the Count leaned forward. "You're a _vampire_."

"_And_ a citizen," countered Zolana raising a finger. "Ve must abide by zer rules. It is only, ah, sporting after all."

"You think so?"

"Most of zem are simple prey," she flipped her dark hair. "No challenge at all. Ve could drain ze city if ve truly vanted to." But vhere's the fun in zat? Complete abstinence, now zat is a challenge."

"And zis... vhat do you call it? Blood drive?"

Zolana put a hand to her forehead. "It vas Igor's idea. For medicinal purposes. He asked _us_ to test it for him. Really, it goes against everything the League stands for!"

"Zen how is it tested now?"

"I – I don't know."

The Count smiled and stood. "Zen perhaps I can be of assistance."

* * *

It was well known that while Igors made magnificent surgeons, they didn't always make the best doctors, preferring to cure a runny nose with a new nose altogether. Naturally, this created problems. Or would, but there was only one Igor in the city and he was working for the Watch and therefore under Commander Vimes who really didn't want a new set of fingers every time he got a papercut. He enlisted the help of Dr. Lawn to set some ground rules for Igor and before long the medical community as a whole saw leaps and bounds in the recovery rates of their patients. It was Igor who introduced new medicinal practices and techniques and even washed his hands before and after each surgery, urging others to do the same.

It was also Igor who decided to host Ankh-Morpork's first blood drive.

The mechanics of the drive could have been thought out better. While it would have been a wonderful idea to have the vampires testing the blood for infection and sorting it into the proper categories, the Temperance League stayed well away from _sapient_ blood. The willpower to stay as far from the drive as possible was truly incredible.

* * *

The bartender at the Mended Drum saw his share of vampires. He'd never seen this many at once though.

"I tell you," Jonas Riddle thumped his glass loudly. "I tell you, people in this town will do anything for a few cookies."

"It's for a good cause Jonas." Juniper Lockhart was of a stronger will than most vampires; she'd only had six drinks so far.

"Zat doesn't mean ve have to _like_ it. It's as if zey want us to go back to drinking… drinking… ze b-vord again. Right La- Lazarus?"

Lazarus was too busy under the table to answer Emma. The ceiling really was _fascinating_ from this angle.

* * *

The Count was on his way to the blood drive. Zolana had opted to give very detailed directions rather than risk being near so much blood. The Count though, had no such reservations.

"Good evening Igor."

"Sir! Good to see you sir!" The Count was momentarily surprised by the lack of lisp, but brushed the matter aside.

"I understand you are in need of blood testers?" He smiled toothily.

"Oh sir! Good of you sir! Right this way please." Igor lumbered to a nearby door and beckoned the Count inside. The smell of ammonia pervaded the air. Igor was very insistent about hygiene.

"I must ask Igor, vhat do you do vith all zis blood?" The Count eyed the bags in the icebox Igor had opened.

"We give it to the patients sir, provided it's clean. It works wonders. All you need is a needle and some tubes. I don't imagine you're familiar with putting blood _into_ things, but there it is."

"Vell zen," this was a most educational day. "Shall ve begin?

* * *

Zolana meanwhile, had finally given in and joined the others at the Drum.

"Really Zol- Zul- Zula? Your uncle went to the drive?" Jonas was swaying a little bit. Zolana sighed. You could tell they were thoroughly saturated with alcohol – they couldn't even speak properly.

"Zat is right. Since ze League members can't help, he thought zey might like a hand as it vere." Zolana took a sip from her glass.

"Better him than us at least right Emma?" Jonas blinked at the empty space next to him. "Emma? Where – ohhh…" Jonas slumped forward suddenly and hit the table so hard his fangs embedded in the wood. Finding Emma would have to wait until after his nap.

Emma had in fact joined Lazarus under the table. He was right – the ceiling really was fascinating from this angle.

* * *

Two days later the Count was on his way out of Ankh-Morpork. The blood drive had been a great success. Igor was thrilled with all the progress they were making. The Count for his part had been fortunate enough to meet several interesting figures in the city. The orangutan was one of the most polite individuals he had ever met. And of course he couldn't leave without meeting the man Margolatta admired so much. Truly, Lord Vetinari was every bit a devious as she claimed.

"We must talk another time Count. When we both have less on our schedule. Do feel free to visit our city again."

The Count arched an eyebrow. "Was that an invitation?"

Vetinari smiled. "Why, I believe it was."

* * *

Emma and Lazarus meanwhile returned to the Mended Drum and counted each and every ceiling tile before finally deciding there were in fact 628. Because you just can't let that sort of thing go.

* * *

_A longer one for a change. This one took a while to write, but I had a lot of fun with it. I may do a follow-up; we can't leave that plot thread with Vetinari hanging :) _

_- SilverInkblot_


	8. SelfHarvesting

Death could not kill. It was outside his jurisdiction. He could not interfere. Oh yes, he could make a difference in the large scheme of things but individual lives were another matter. People must be allowed to play out their own lives; otherwise, it wasn't their lives anymore. Even when they chose to end it. True, humans were often the cause of their own demise, but it usually wasn't _intentional_.

Death has seen many suicides over the years. He never gets used to it. Sometimes they leave notes.

He reads every one.

He doesn't consider it an invasion of privacy. They wouldn't have left it behind if they didn't want someone to read it.

Death is consistently baffled by humanity, but sometimes there is a moment of clarity and he thinks he can almost understand. But this conundrum eludes him. At first he was insulted – they thought they could do a better job than him? Now it was just sad. Most of them were only lonely.

Death remembers his time as a mortal and the ever-present fear of the dwindling sand in his glass. He still remembers the hours alone watching his sand, his _time_ slide away into the abyss and remembers a prisoner in his tower with only the sparrows for company. He stares at the body on the floor, lifeless by its own hand.

Death knows about true loneliness. Humans had no idea what they were leaving behind. He picked up the note and left it lying prominently outside the landlord's door. No need to let things sit for days. Death grabbed his scythe and saw himself out as silently as he came.

* * *

_I imagine after his time in Reaper Man, Death would be **confounded** over the concept of suicide, seeing how hard he tried to hold on to life. This isn't supposed to be a commentary on suicide; it's a serious subject and I tried to treat it as such. This is only meant to be a meditation on how I think Death would view it._


	9. A Request

The golem trust fund was moving along swimmingly.

As the first golem to ever own himself, Dorfl naturally found himself in a position of leadership. The golems looked up to him when the words were too much to handle. Golems had large heads; you could put a lot of words in there. Working together, the number of free golems in the city grew exponentially. In a very short time (especially by golem standards), nearly every golem in the city was free. The only hold-outs now were those who, for whatever reason, did not wish to part with their own personal perpetual motion machine. As the system grew however, Dorfl soon found himself in a position similar to that of the Commander; the system was running itself. Suddenly he found himself a very small part of a machine much larger than he was. Dorfl was restless.

He needed a hobby.

Or, at least, something more to occupy his time. The trust fund could take care of itself. Dorfl considered his options carefully before deciding; he went to Vetinari.

* * *

"There's a golem to see you Your Lordship."

"Indeed? See him in won't you Drumknott?"

Dorfl stepped in, each footfall a soft _thump_ muffled by the carpet.

"What brings you to me today Dorfl? I trust all is going well in your social revolution?"

"Yes. All Is Well."

"And you come here?..."

"I Think It Is Time To Expand Our Efforts Into Uberwald."

Vetinari steepled his fingers. "Do you now?"

"Our Work Will Not Be Finished As Long As One Of Our Own Remains Chained. No One Else But Ourselves Can Do This For Us."

"Then what do you want from me?"

Dorfl did not change his tone, but there was a brightness in his eyes.

"I Want A Guild."

"Hmmm." Vetinari leaned back in his chair, thinking. "You realize of course, this would put me firmly on your side. There are many in Uberwald that may not be entirely happy about that. And I would greatly appreciate allies abroad at this time."

"But Would You Appreciate Enemies Here?"

Vetinari smiled behind his fingers. "I see you won't be taking no for an answer. Very well then." Drumknott suddenly appeared to the side.

Vetinari signed the paper handed to him and gave it to Dorfl. "Diplomacy is all about words. I trust you know what to do with them."

"Of Course." Dorfl saw himself out.

* * *

Dorfl was introduced properly at the next city meeting.

"And I'm sure you all are aware of our newest Guild leader. The Guild of Golems will be a true asset to the city; I'm sure we can work out any complaints several," Vetinari paused to find the right words. "Upstanding community members have had," some of the guild leaders squirmed in their seats.

"I Am Happy To Assist The City In Whatever Way I Can."

Vetinari smiled and shuffled the papers in front of him. On top was one of Leonard's sketches. It was of a kind of mechanical structure of carts with multiple wheels set upon two parallel bars. At the very front was some sort of propulsion engine. Off to the side was written _Transportive Regional And Inter-city Network Engine._

Vetinari glanced around the table before allowing his eyes to wander back to the drawings in his hands. "I believe the golems will be very helpful indeed in our city's future endeavors."

* * *

_I could be wrong of course, but there have been a few moments in some of the books that have lead me to believe that Pratchett is setting the city up to build a subway system of some kind._


	10. Cats in Boxes

The cornfields of Death's realm ripped in a soft breeze. Death watched from afar, petting a fluffy ginger cat. Around his ankles Mephistopheles rubbed and purred, shedding black fur all over his robes. Two more were napping nearby while more were playing under the tree with Susan's swing. There were Siamese and calicos and tabby cats. Here in his world they were protected from stray carts or water or dogs. When he got the chance, he picked up bits of sting and yarn for their amusement.

He finds the company of felines eases the loneliness. For reasons not even he understands, cats have always been aware of his presence. He suspects it's because they can see right through humans; as a creation of humanity's collective beliefs, they can see through him as well.

He has seen them many times near deathbeds, sitting at the feet or on the lap of his next client, waiting for him. Their eyes always have the same look as though asking _why are you so late?_ There's often a sense of accomplishment on their part, as if they were proud to have gotten there first. He would raise an eyebrow had he any to lift, but continue with his work while the cats sat in judgement.

He never got used to the feeling that he was being graded on the job he did. It was very disorienting. He could sense their eyes following him, feel their displeasure with the arc of his swing. Nothing was ever good enough for a cat – well, maybe a good scratch behind the ears. Cats were never impressed, but they could be placated.

Caring for them, Death finds he understands them no better than before. Even so, he enjoys their presence.

Sometimes Death thinks he can _almost_ understand humans. But even given eternity, he doesn't really believe that he'll even get that far with cats.

* * *

_In Roundworld, cats have long been subject to superstition of all sorts. Much of it stems from the very real tendency of cats to appear at ones deathbed shortly before dying. There's no real explanation for how they know - but it just may be a contributing factor in Death's soft spot for them :)_

_- SilverInkblot_


	11. Lilac Rain

_Ankh - Morpork, 30 years ago._

There was a whisper in the city. Rumors flew left and right and overflowed into the street. It flowed in the alleyways and slithered from one ear to the next, a sigh of coming revolution.

In the dark, Reg was writing a manifesto.

_We the People of Ankh - Morpork do set down these complaints and grievances against the current system; the curfew is unreasonable, we the common folk are grossly misrepresented, our rights and liberties ignored in favor of greed, covetousness, and mindless self-indulgence…_

His pen scratched on the parchment hastily, making quick loop - the – loops out of his letters, blotches of ink staining his poet shirt. The candles flickered on their shortening wicks; Reg had been writing late into the night.

_When the needs of the many are not met swiftly and fairly, it is the duty of the people to meet them themselves; by diplomacy first, and if necessary, then by violence. When a man is arrested without proper cause and left to rot in a cell with no trial, then the system has failed. When there can be no outcry, however small, against our leadership, then the system has failed. When our children cannot look forward to a future better than the one they currently live in, then the system has failed. When the system has failed, when it no longer serves the people it was supposed to protect, then the people must protect themselves._

Reg was on fire with intensity, writing faster and faster; words and sentences and entire paragraphs exploding from the quill in his hand like a stream of gunpowder. Revolution! Glorious, magnificent revolution, it could not come soon enough! A battle, an assassination, a shot in the dark, anything to break this awful tension stretching across the city. Everyone – everyone was waiting to see what would happen. Which side would lose blood first?

_These words are written in the throes of passion and zeal that our suffering and patience have not been in vain. Would that these words be enough, enough to convince and sway the masses as yet undecided that our cause is just, our reasons sound, our motives virtuous. _

_Would that these words be all that was needed, and that this Revolution sweep through with no loss, however great or small._

_We hold in our hearts pride and love for our city, even in its darkest hours. _

Reg paused his writing to give his hand a rest. His fingers felt stiff from so long holding the quill, the tips stained black with ink. He took a long drink from his mug, setting it down with a _thump_. His work was done for the night. Changing into his nightclothes, he brought the candle over to the nightstand to get a little reading done before finally hushing out the flame. In the dark he dreamed of struggle, of defending his home on the front lines under the lilac trees as the petals rained over the battlefield.

In his dreams he saw everything that could be.

* * *

The lilac trees outside bloomed more beautiful than he had ever seen them the next morning.

* * *

_Lilacs are symbolic of young love, spirtuality, and death._

_- SilverInkblot_


	12. Storytime

Sybil emerged from the bathroom, freshly cleaned of soot and grime. The dragons were safe in their pens for the night, and the threat of explosions seemed slim tonight. She moved quietly to the nursery and picked up baby Sam from his cradle and rocked him gently. Young Sam looked at his mother with a perplexed expression, not understanding.

It was 6:01.

Sybil hugged her son gently; Sam had never been late before. She rocked Young Sam in the chair, the peaceful back and forth rhythm lulling his soft cries for his father. She looked at the clock again; maybe she hadn't read it properly.

6:03.

Young Sam sucked on his pacifier bemusedly, wishing he were chewing on the corners of his favorite book instead. How would he ever learn where the cow was now?

Sybil continued in her rocking chair, calm on the exterior but inwardly imagining all the things that could be keeping Sam. Only something terrible could keep him out this late – he could be hurt, or dead, or dying… and she was just sitting here! The dread nearly forced her out of her chair and straight to Vetinari. She forced the panic away, shoving back down into the pit of her stomach before it could claw its way up and out. He would come. He always came. He always came back and he always read to his son. That was how things were. It was a fundamental law of the universe. You may as well ignore gravity. She glanced at the clock.

6:07.

She jumped out of the rocking chair and grabbed the baby bag. Something had happened to Sam. Havelock would know. He knew everything that happened in the city, usually before it even happened. She bundled Young Sam quickly as she could and raced to the front door and was halfway down the hall before the door opened of its own accord. Sybil stared at the emerging figure against a backdrop of light rain; Young Sam let out a happy squeal, arms outstretched as though he'd always known everything would be alright.

"Sorry I'm late. . ."

* * *

_They're such a cute family. ^.^ - SilverInkblot_


	13. Duality

_Written for Ajac, who gives me so many wonderful ideas._

* * *

The city never slept. Not really.

The moonlight filtered through the smoke and fog to cast a metallic sheen over the rooftops of Ankh-Morpork. Under its weak light the beggars shuffled about, the Thieves' Guild harassed the late night clientele, the Assassins stayed snugly in their beds and Vetinari watches it all from above, pondering. Below, Carrot patrols the night with Angua close beside, murmuring quietly to each other on a rare peaceful night.

He keeps a special eye on Carrot as the true king of Ankh-Morpork and could have easily dispatched a clerk to silently impose and report but finds he has no need to – it's painfully easy to read everything on their faces.

* * *

Carrot knew what he was. He could be a dwarf and a human, copper and secret king, heroic and humble (to the great disbelief of many). Angua never seemed comfortable with her own split identities. Didn't comprehend that, to him, she was of equal importance as the city he defended. Had he not left it all behind? Gallivanting after her like a bloody idiot and nearly getting himself done in by _snow_ of all things. Dragons and sociopaths and every manner of evil sort – saving the Disc was of no consequence, a footnote to history, for the Disc would always be there after Angua. The happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story and every day the crown gets heavier. He had a responsibility to his city.

But he still chose her first.

He watches her sleep, or would if he thought he could get away with it. But in the occasional moments of calm he runs his hands through her long hair, soft golden filaments of tangible sunlight and is content with his dual loyalties, happy in a life of contradiction.

* * *

Angua sighed inwardly but didn't say anything. Carrot would always, _always_ try to understand, even when it was impossible to explain. If you were a werewolf, then you understood what it was to be one. You understood the freedom inherent in the wolfish side and the temptation in the human side to give in. Understood how easy it was to hurt the ones you loved.

She wanted to believe she could never hurt Carrot but knew deep down that she could never make that promise. Telling _that_ lie to herself was dangerous to everyone. She glanced over at Carrot, the moonlight profiling his face in soft contrast and knew that is the time ever came then she had to run. The happy ending may not come at all and some days the smell of blood is nearly irresistible. For now though, the hunger has quieted. She has Carrot, and Carrot is happy.

And she'll do anything to keep it that way.

* * *

Vetinari watches and waits, observing and taking action as necessary, but doesn't interfere here. Angua won't leave. Not yet. And as long as she doesn't, Carrot has no reason to abandon his city thus Vetinari has no reason to intervene. He turned from the window, away from the two not-quite-humans.

He doesn't consider matchmaking to be part of his duties as Patrician, but privately Vetinari can't help but feel that these two are perfect for each other.

As long as it's in the best interests of the city anyway.

* * *

_I own nothing. - SilverInkblot_


	14. Rewritten

_This drabble and the following one were both once seperate entries on my profile. I have relocated them here in the interests of cleanliness. There is a third oneshot as well, but I prefer it as a stand-alone as it is quite special to me :)_

* * *

Stories like to start with "once upon a time."

This is ridiculous of course. No story ever only happened once. And they're rarely so simple as to require such an introduction.

Death has seen the end of many stories. And they all end, sooner or later. It's the ripples that keep expanding after the source is long gone.

Stories were like ripples.

* * *

Once upon a time there was an absent minded but well-intentioned fairy godmother. There was also another fairy godmother, a baron, a cat, and a servant girl, but none of this is important.

There was also a trio of witches, and one of them knew something about stories.

* * *

A human mind, a _thinking_ mind, cannot meld with one of pure instinct. Where one would leap a gap without pause the other would fret and measure sixteen times before realizing there was a bridge thirty feet to the left.

The wolf tried to hunt but only saw the patterns in tracks and foliage on the trail and half remembered the crack of bone and taste of raw meat.

He tried to whine and sigh at the same time.

* * *

Binky munched on the apples fallen from the tree Death had thoughtfully left him under. The forest was trapped in perpetual summer; the apples were always fresh.

No one seemed to find this odd.

Death brushed his fingers across the pine needles and pulled a handful off, studying them closely. There was an almost tangible magic to everything, keeping it all unnervingly perfect.

There was a story building somewhere, words reflected backwards and twisted beyond legibility.

He wondered if humans knew what they did to themselves with their stories. That they could write their own if they'd just learn how to _read_.

* * *

The little girl skipped her merry way to grandmother's house, lalala-ing her way over the river and through the woods with such sickening cheerfulness that even the Cheerful Fairy would have given pause. Shortly behind, the wolf padded along, not even bothering to hide – the little girl hadn't even looked back once. Why would she? Everyone knew how this story ended. The little girl in the red hood was_** mocking**_ him with her silly songs and skippity-hops and _?_

Wolves didn't think like this. Wolves weren't suspicious or big or bad. They were just wolves.

* * *

Granny returned what she had Borrowed and resisted the urge to scratch behind the ear while Nanny got the milk. Soon, Magarat returned with the woodcutter and child in tow and the wolf was laid to rest. A new cottage was quickly put into construction, Nanny and Magarat overseeing. Granny returned to the woods.

Death was waiting, scythe in hand, looking as sad as a skeleton could manage.

I ALWAYS LIKED HAPPY ENDINGS.

"Hah! Happy for who I wonder?" Granny couldn't have kept the scorn from her voice if she tried. "You can't force a happy ending. It ain't right."

NO. IT'S NOT. GRANDMOTHERS SHOULD NOT BE ABANDONED TO WOLVES AND LITTLE MATCH GIRLS SHOULD NOT BE LEFT TO FREEZE IN THE SNOW.

Death somehow managed to look even sadder.

BUT THE STORIES HAVE BEEN ETCHED DEEPLY INTO HUMAN CONCIOUSSNESS. THEY CANNOT BE SIMPLY REMOVED.

"No." Granny looked back to the fresh grave. "But maybe they can be rewritten."

Granny and Death stood silently for a few moments more before a whinny from Binky prompted Death. He remounted, noting the apples still remained as perfect as ever before leaving Granny alone with her thoughts. Before long, she joined the other two, leaving the summer-bound forest behind.

Lily would never know what hit her.

* * *

Once upon a time, a story ended. And that's all there really is to it.


	15. A Very Small Honor

There was a dusting of snow on the rooftops of the Assassin dormitories.

Assassins had a love/hate relationship with snow. While it did offer a picturesque scene, one that made the victim stand out easily were they foolish enough to venture out on a night when _accidents_ were so easy to arrange, it also left conspicuous footprints for anyone to follow. Granted, Assassins were trained for such things, but that made it no less a nuisance.

In the morning there would be snowball wars (not fights; _wars_ mind you) and snow citadels (not common _forts_) would rise and blood would be shed and great fun would be had by all; except by the losers of course. Not everyone can be a winner. If you weren't a winner, then you were a loser and losers didn't get to slip by in the Guild. While the adults were busy with silly things like _scandal _and _lounging_, it was up to the boys to forge their comrades into winners, or at least remove them from the breeding pool.

But for now the boys curled up under the warm sheets waiting for the Hogfather, listening for the chime of bells over their heads and the snort of the pigs that would signal his arrival. Those that were not listening were already snoring away and dreaming of everything tomorrow morning would bring.

All but one that is.

In the far corner removed slightly from the other boys, Jonathan Teatime was contemplating strategy. Just how would one go about assassinating an anthromorphic personification? How do you end something whose only weakness is based off of something you have no control of or access to? And just why were the other boys getting so excited over _snowballs_? Yesterday in the common room the tension between the two opposing factions had reached a peak you could climb with a grappling hook. He rolled over on his side. Some people had no priorities.

* * *

He had thought it a shame for a long time – all these plans and he would never get the chance to put them into action. While he would have happily done any of them for free, Teatime was still tied to the Guild and the Guild had standards. Said standards typically involved being paid for their services. Brilliant at his craft he may have been, but not even he was certain of his ability to take on the entire Guild of Assassins over something so trivial as inhuming say, the Soul Cake Duck. You do one assassination for free and the next client will start demanding lower prices or even_ favors_. No, the Guild would never stand for that.

Imagine his happiness to be told of Lord Downey's mysterious client and… unusual request.

He had no trouble bringing his allies together. Really, the smiles on their faces, reflected on his own – he just had a way with people.

* * *

Lord Downey found himself faced with a problem. One the one hand, the boy had taken out the Hogfather – no small feat that. On the other, he hadn't _stayed_ dead. If your target doesn't stay dead, you haven't done your job right. On yet another hand, Jonathan Teatime had vanished without a trace.

That meant he could still be out there.

The chills rippled up and down his spine. As long as there was no body, Teatime had to be assumed alive. To assume otherwise was inviting disaster. He couldn't ignore the accomplishment, but neither could he give a plaque for an assassination that hadn't stuck. He buried his face in his hands.

In the end he gave the problem to the Board. If Teatime should ever return, at least he could spread the blame around. Who knows, perhaps Mr. Teatime would get a kick out of being the namesake of the award for the most creative hypothetical inhumation.

The higher – ups in the Guild were looking over their shoulders for the next month.

Meanwhile, the boys built their snow citadels for their wars and drew lines in the whiteness that separated the winners from the losers. And if the adults were tense for some reason, well, that just made them easier targets for the occasional stray snowball.

* * *

_Assassins are fun to write for. - SilverInkblot_


	16. The Dangers of Alcohol

Dustworthy Swithin awoke one fine morning with no recollection of where he had been the previous night. He recognized the room he awoke in as his own, and the bed he was lying in to be his own as well, but as to how he got there he was fairly sure that his own legs hadn't brought him. While all this information was busy entertaining his brain, his first real hint that something must have happened last night finally registered when he made a motion to stretch his arms over his head and found his hands tied. His second hint was that there was someone sitting in a chair at the foot of his bed.

"Hastings?"

Hastings sighed. "Thought you'd never wake up you ugly blighter."

There were a lot of questions to be asked here. Dustworthy jumped on the most pressing one. "Why are my hands tied?"

"To keep you from doing anything stupider than what you done last night."

"Er, I'm not sure when last night was. Or where. Or what happened." Dustworthy furrowed his brow. "What did I do last night?"

"You were drunk Dustworthy. **Dead** drunk. Especially the dead part. In fact, I can't believe I'm talking to you right now. Or rather, I can't believe you're talking to me."

Dustworthy tried to rub his aching forehead but his tied hands wouldn't allow him. The hangover was pounding away in his head like dwarfs in a gold mine.

"You still haven't told me what happened last night Hastings. I remember – I remember there was food. And beer. Lots of beer." Dustworthy fiddled with his bonds. He had a feeling he could have easily done away with them were he not hungover this badly.

"Yeah, there was a lot of beer." Hastings grinned stupidly. "Say what you want about the Patrician, he knows how to throw a party."

Dustworthy bit at the ropes around his hands, gnawing away as best he could with slipshod results. He ended up with a finger in his eye. Hastings admonished his attempts.

"You may be glad of those one day Dustworthy. It may save your life."

"Why?"

"Because last night you tried to slap the Patrician on the back."

There was a complete silence, that silence when one has to decipher words that in any other context or order would make perfect sense but take on new meaning when they apply to yourself. Dustworthy struggled to find his voice.

"I what?"

"I said you were dead drunk last night Dustworthy."

* * *

Dustworthy Swithin awoke one fine morning a completely sober man and a living legend among Morporkians.

* * *

_I seem to like writing dunk people for some reason. I find this odd as I am neither of drinking age nor do I ever have any intention of so much as touching alcohol when I am._

_- SilverInkblot_


	17. Passive Aggressive Negotiations

The sun was beating down on a summer day in Ankh – Morpork.

Trev Likely bounced a football from one side to the other with practiced ease. His feet executed each movement with near supernatural precision, at times seeming to defy physics altogether. Juliet watched carefully as the ball rolled exactly where he wanted it to each time, trying her best to understand the technique.

"Look, it's easy. Just try to get the ball into the goal alright?" Trev kicked the ball over. Juliet jumped as the ball rocketed straight for her but then fell to gravity and bounced, gently rolling to a halt at her feet. She looked from the ball to Trev and then back to the ball, giving it a little prod with her toe as though frightened it would bite her. Then she swung her leg back and let fly with all the strength she could muster from her delicate frame.

The ball went sailing far, far left of the goal even though Juliet had been positioned directly in front of it. Trev sighed and raced after it yet again; Juliet hadn't made a lick of progress since they began this morning.

* * *

Glenda didn't let just anyone in her kitchen, but found she could no longer keep Trev out. He followed Juliet around like a love struck puppy. It was problematic at times, but she had to admit it was funny watching Juliet teach him how to bake pies.

Juliet sprinkled the counter with flour to keep the dough from sticking and handed Trev a rolling pin. He began rolling the dough, flattening the air bubbles and expanding the size until it was large enough to transfer to the pie pan. Next came the filling and there were choices aplenty in Glenda's kitchen. He agonized for nearly twenty minutes, going from meat pie choices to deciding he wanted something sweet and eventually settled on peaches. He dumped the fillings in with little ceremony and covered it all up with another sheet of dough, remembering to cut vent holes in the top this time. He set the oven before wandering off to practice more football with Juliet. She laughed at his flour-dusted hair and kissed the peach juice from his cheek before convincing him to come with her to see Nutt instead, before he left with the traveling priest.

* * *

Glenda returned early from her rounds as usual to pull Trev's pie from the oven. She would have liked to let it burn just to teach him a lesson, but her kitchen was more important. She set the pie on the cooling rack and continued her duties, making a mental note to make sure the Librarian knew there was a fresh peach pie waiting unattended in the Night Kitchen.

* * *

Trev wasn't all that bad at making pies once he got a bit of practice behind him; it was the waiting period as the pies cooked that was the problem. Trev had a way of forgetting about them burning away in the over that might have been mistaken for intentional. Even so, Glenda enlisted him to help prepare for the upcoming banquet. Ankh - Morpork had royalty visiting, and that meant a lot of food to prepare.

"I hear they're coming all the way from Lancre," Glenda was mixing up a cake batter. "The king up there wants to set up trade relations or something."

"I heard he's married to a witch!"

"That's not very nice Trev." Juliet worked her rolling pin.

"No, really! A real witch! Like a wizard only a girl and all."

"You better bake some good pies then Trev Likely," Glenda smiled. "She might turn you into a frog for serving bad food."

"That's okay. I'd just have to have Juliet kiss me human again."

Juliet made a face. "I'd never kiss a frog."

* * *

Magarat and Verence were enjoying the city; the architecture, the sights, the sounds! It was all so different from everything they knew. Ankh – Morpork was spread out all over the place, full of twisted alleyways and you could buy anything in the world you wanted from the many shops and vendors publicizing their wares. A man barely had room to turn around in Lancre before he found himself leaving the country. Verence had a notepad out and was writing furiously, noting down ideas and possibilities. Their entourage wound through Ankh – Morpork before finally arriving at the Patrician's Palace where Lord Vetinari was awaiting their arrival.

"King Verence," Vetinari stepped forward. "Welcome to Ankh – Morpork. And you as well Queen Magarat." Magarat smiled and curtsied, hoping that was the right thing to do.

"Lawks this is a treat!" Nanny elbowed Verence out of the way followed by a sour Granny. "You have this place all to yourself your Lordship?"

"Actually, many of the servants have lodging here. The palace is quite large."

"Lawks! I bet you have all kinds of fun here, eh Your Lordship?" Nanny made several winking and nodding motions.

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "If by fun, you mean the occasional game of Thud! frequently interrupted by the demands of running a city, then yes, I do indeed have more than my share of fun."

"And what about -"

"Gytha Ogg, if you continue this line of questioning, we are turning around and going home! I'll have none of this nonsense on an official visit!" Granny didn't care much (indeed at all) for politics, but she knew trouble when she saw it building.

Nanny smiled to herself but complied, turning the conversation to a less interesting topic.

Magarat and Verence followed Vetinari into the hallway listening to Nanny chatter away. Verence murmured to his wife. "Did you really have to bring them along?"

"No," Magarat whispered back. "They would have come anyway." Secretly, she was relieved to have the attention on someone else; being a diplomat was _hard_.

"And this is Commander Vimes. He will be head of security during your stay here." Vimes looked like he would rather be back in Uberwald again than play host to a king. At least he had managed to squirm out of wearing the armor.

"Welcome to Ankh – Morpork your majesties," he somehow managed to sound passably polite, which for Vimes meant something different than the average aristocrat. For Vimes, polite meant he wasn't arresting you – yet. Verence stretched out a hand. "Good afternoon Commander."

Vimes wondered briefly if the hand was a ploy, but instead took it and decided he like this fellow. He didn't look like a king at all. "I'll be positioning some of my best Watchmen during the banquet. You can rest easy with us on the job."

Magarat smiled and curtsied again. "Thank you Commander."

* * *

Vimes rubbed his eyes, wondering why he had to part of the banquet instead of guarding it. Sybil nudged him in the ribs. "It's only for a few hours Sam. Even you can take a few hours in a necktie."

"It's like a rope around my neck Sybil," Vimes countered through gritted teeth. Bad enough that he had been seated next to Lipwig.

"Hush Sam."

"Yes dear."

* * *

Postmaster General Moist von Lipwig edged in his seat nervously. He had never seen the Commander in a good mood. Now proved no exception.

It wasn't an accident. There was no way it was on accident. Two thousand people in this dining hall and he just happened to be seated next to Commander Vimes?

You only get one angel, but the devils never leave you alone.

* * *

On the other side of the table Magarat listened to the boys talking politics.

"So how's your football league King Verence?"

"Oh, we don't have a league. The only real sport back home is Morris dancing really." Verence was out of his element. Morporkains were very keen on their football.

"Really? So I suppose a friendly competition between nations is out of the question then?"

"Well, I'm sure we could get a team back home together in no time. In fact. . . "

* * *

Granny and Nanny had been seated along with others of magical persuasion. Nanny of course could make the best of any situation so long as food was involved and was eating with a gusto that put even some of the more senior wizards to shame. Ridcully for one was impressed.

"See lads? That's what a healthy appetite is all about. Could you pass the pudding this way if you please?"

"Not right, a woman eating like that," grumbled the Senior Wrangler.

"You're just upset because it's less sausage for you."

"Speaking of which, let me get a slice of that meat."

"Where's the gravy gone? Did you use it _all_? Figures. Didn't save us a drop did you?"

"Skull ring remember?"

Granny sat through the festivities tight lipped. Only wizards could be so excited over a simple necessity as food. Ridcully leaned over. "My dear, aren't you going to eat anything?"

"No."

"Not even a little pudding? Here, it's delicious."

"Ook." The Librarian reached for the fruit bowl and chose a banana.

"What," Granny turned to the intruder. "Is a monkey doing at this table?"

The entire table fell silent; half still had forks raised to their mouths, or were in the process of trying not to choke without making any sudden moves. The Librarian stared at Granny and began to peel his banana with a deliberate slowness and a few of the wizards ducked under the table just in case.

* * *

Trev and Juliet slipped away from the Night Kitchen. Before long they would have to be back to help with the clean-up and dishes would be piled precariously high in the sink just waiting for gravity to catch up. In the meantime, Trev had stashed a ball away in one of the University's many unused rooms.

"Come on. There's a room upstairs with a big fireplace. We can use that for a goal okay?"

"Are you sure it's alright to play here Trev?" Juliet bit her lip slightly, nervous. Mrs. Whitlow could be _scary_ about this sort of thing.

"Of course – so long as we don't get caught," he flashed a cheeky grin. "Besides, it's more fun that way."

* * *

Granny stared at the Librarian.

The Librarian stared at Granny.

The wizards stared at each other; somewhere in the background, the banquet continued among the other guests, blissfully unaware of the brewing hostility in their midst.

Nanny continued eating happily, munching away and grabbing food while there was no competition.

* * *

Vimes had stationed his best Watchmen at various points around the parameter, just out of sight and close to potential exits. But you don't get to be Commander of the City Watch without knowing your men; hence Corporal Nobbs and Sergeant Colon had been placed near the kitchens. Nobby had managed to snatch enough food to feed a family of four for six and a half days and, were wizards the type to notice, the University was short several spoons.

"It's like this Nobby," Fred had gotten one of the waiters to bring him a drink. "You gotta _impress_ foreigners see. They gotta want what you've got, but not _that_ badly. Cause if they really, _really_ want something, they'll just take it right? And then it'll be off to war and fightin' and nobody's happy then see? But they see _us_, impressive police force we are and they'll think 'Gee. I'd hate to be on **their** bad side,' so the only option is trade. That way, everybody wins. And that's why we Watchmen always need to be at these sorts of events; we gotta leave an _impression_. See what I'm sayin' Nobby?"

"Clear as crystal Sarge."

Fred frowned. "Nobby?"

"Yeah Sarge?"

"Put the spoon back."

* * *

Trev rolled the ball to Juliet and took his place at the makeshift goal. Juliet had a way of making the ball go a long way, but in the completely wrong direction.

Juliet swung a leg at the ball, aiming for the empty fireplace Trev was blocking but the ball had other plans. It ricocheted off the mantle and bounced out the door, down the hall and rolled to where Fred and Nobby were conversing politics. Nobby bent and picked up the football.

"Er, excuse us, but that's ours," Trev poked his head out of the room. "Mind sending it back?"

"Hey, you're that Likely lad ain't you?"

"Yeah, that's me," Trev made his way down the hall, Juliet in tow.

"You sure you're allowed to play in here? Would that housekeeper lady approve? Mrs. Whitnow or something?"

"Mrs. Whitlow. An' she probably wouldn't like it much at all."

Juliet batted her eyelashes. "You wouldn't tell her would you? We were just practicing."

No one could resist Juliet. No one. Not men, not gods, and not Watchmen either.

"Of course not young lady," Fred was suddenly all gallantry. "We were only inquiring to ensure your well-being of course."

Juliet smiled a smile that the poets would have written epics about had they been there to bear witness to the event. They would have described sun rays breaking through black storm clouds or roses budding at dawn or the River Ankh drying up (poetry, like beauty, is subjective, but there are some things everyone agrees on).

"Do you play football?"

"Well, it's been a while, but we still get the boys together and kick around, yeah."

Trev bounced the ball on his foot. "Care for a quick round? Just kicking the ball around and all."

* * *

Fred and Nobby positioned themselves at one end of the hall, Trev and Juliet stationed at the other. "First one to get five goals past the other side wins, alright?"

"Got it. Let's get playin'!"

Trev began by kicking the ball in midair, aiming left of the two Watchmen. He hadn't, however, counted on Nobby being Nobby and the ball was snatched right out of the air.

"Hey! You can't use your hands!"

"Sure you can. We're all goalkeepers right? So we can use our hands if we want."

Trev couldn't argue with that logic, though he felt there was something inherently wrong about it. But if they could use their hands, then so could he and Juliet, so that at least kept things even and the game continued. He and Juliet matched Fred and Nobby easily, scoring three goals in quick succession while allowing none to pass. Trev rushed forward and Nobby took the opportunity to kick the ball over his head, sailing past Juliet and far down the hall, finally scoring one for the other side. Juliet raced down the hall after the football, where it stopped just short of the main dining room. She prodded the ball with her foot, bringing it along to one side, then kicked it, aiming back down the hall to Trev.

* * *

He didn't know how she did it. How anyone could possibly be _that_ bad at football. But she was Juliet, naïve and beautiful and of exceptionally bad aim. The ball was far out of his reach now.

Because the ball was now gracefully arcing over the banquet hall.

* * *

The Librarian reached for another banana, too absorbed in the staring contest to notice the football sailing over the table. "Ook."

Granny nodded once, deliberately, and the tension broke without anyone realizing what had happened. Granny ignored all the stares centered upon her and took a slice of bread and began to butter it.

"He may be an ape, but his table manners are still better than yours."

* * *

"With all due respect your Majesty, my boys would trounce yours in Morris dancing. Football is a simple pastime, but the complexities of dance do not elude the players."

"Nonsense sir. I have a hard time buying such a preposterous claim. Our troupe are six – time champions in Fifteen Mountains All Comers Tournament."

"Well, they haven't seen our troupe yet then have they?"

Morporkians were keen on their football, but they were even bigger on winning. It didn't matter _what_, just winning. Magarat was tiring of the commotion.

"Why not just have a big event? You can have all sorts of competitions with football and Morris dancing – it would be a wonderful cultural exchange." She ladeled another bowl of soup for herself just as the football came in for a crash landing into the soup pot.

* * *

The ball Trev had chosen was quite large and given incredible momentum made a considerable splash, splattering most of the table and guests with various bits of meat, carrots, and potatoes, some of the debris reaching as far as the wizards table. Strangely, Vetinari remained completely dry while Magarat and Verence blinked the broth out from their eyes while the banquet hall stopped to a collective hush, wondering who was in trouble this time.

* * *

Trev didn't bother waiting for the Watchmen, parading right down to the main table. "It was me! It was my fault Your Majesties, we –"

"No!" Juliet raced to his side, and grabbed his arm. "I kicked the ball, not Trev. He would never!"

The two bantered back and forth over whose fault it was, Juliet determined not to land Trev in trouble and Trev determined to keep her out of it. Vimes settled the matter rather quickly.

"It doesn't _matter_ whose fault it is! And you - " he pointed at Trev. You're the best football player in the entire bloody city and you've been in trouble with us before, but you're not stupid. You're too talented to _accidently_ pull this off and too smart to even try it." Trev opened and closed his mouth while trying to retort and found none were to be made. The Commander had him both ways there.

"You mean he's trying to protect this lovely young lady?" Verence spoke up. "What a gallant young man. And a good sportsman to boot!" Magarat was practically melting at the chivalrous display even as she removed the carrots from her hair and wrung out the broth.

Trev and Juliet stared, hoping the spell would last. "You mean," Juliet hesitated. "We're not in trouble?" Verence waved a hand.

"No harm done, not a whit. It's only soup."

Vimes pulled out a cigar and began chomping on it and cast a glance in the direction the ball had come from. He would be having a word with Fred and Nobby tomorrow.

* * *

Ridcully had offered Granny and Nanny a tour of the University following the festivities. Nanny was perfectly happy to see more of the city but was taken for a bit of a turn when Granny accepted the invitation with no hesitation.

"Not easy being Arch chancellor here," Ridcully showed off the Great Hall. "It's the largest school of magic on the Disc you know."

Granny harrumphed. "Don't be stupid Mustrum. I attended a far larger university."

"Nonsense! Unseen University is the biggest - "

"No one's talking about school," Granny quipped. "I had the best education in the world. You get it by living. Your boys are too much about the big picture." If she wasn't Granny, her expression may have softened here. Maybe it did in another universe.

Ridcully stretched his arms over his head. "It's a big Disc after all." He allowed his hand to come down to rest tentatively around Granny's shoulder.

This prompted two different responses in two different universes. Both of them involved Ridcully in pain.

* * *

Fred and Nobby found a secluded corner to hide in. There were lots of those in Ankh – Morpork.

"You think anyone'll find us here Nobby?"

"Nah. We can stay here for while 'til things cool off."

_**Clack.**_

"Did you hear something?"

"Yeah," Nobby scratched his head. "It sounded like footsteps."

IF I MAY BE SO BOLD,

Fred and Nobby took off without waiting for the rest of the sentence. Death looked as puzzled as a skeleton could manage.

I ONLY WANTED TO KNOW WHERE BIERS WAS.

* * *

Magarat and Verence may have let them off the hook, but that didn't mean Glenda let Trev and Juliet get away. Now, if only she could find them…

The pair were actually in the Night Kitchen, figuring it would be the last place Glenda would look if she thought they were hiding. Trev pulled up a pie.

"Peaches?"

* * *

"I would say negotiations preceded quite favorably all things considered My Lord."

"It would seem so Drumknott," Vetinari turned from the window where Moist Von Lipwig was climbing into a carriage for a real night on the town with Adora. He badly needed a drink. Preferably a strong one. Before Commander Vimes found something to blame him for.

"Shall I run down the proceedings?"

"No need. But thank you Drumknott."

Drumknott bowed slightly and closed the door behind him. Vetinari turned back to the window just as the carriage was strolling off. He stared over the rooftops and chimneys of his city shrouded in nighttime before again being hailed by Drumknott.

"A message for you My Lord, from the clacks system."

The envelope bore the seal of Lady Margolatta. No doubt containing the next move on the Thud! board. He slid the letter open and began to read…

* * *

_Gah, this took FOREVER. A longer one, but not one of my favorites, though I do have a lot of one liners I really like in this one. Looks like the Moist oneshot will have to wait a bit longer yet._

_Obligatory cameo from Death is obligatory._

_- SilverInkblot_


	18. For Want of a Nail

Words.

Words and words and words.

They were flying overhead through the Clacks lines and they channeled through cracks in the walls and expanded their network all over the city like a great sprawling web. They were surrounding him, suffocating him with their presence, their _need_ to be heard.

Moist had to get them out of here.

Untouched mailbags were full to bursting, aching to be relieved of their messages. Overdue bills had money to collect, junk mail had lives to clutter, anonymous notes had addresses to threaten, memos had places to be and on and on and on.

Moist rolled on to his side, brushing yet more letters out of his face, trying to sleep. The letters kept whispering their contents to his open ears.

_. . . . __But I did so want to see the world with you. . . . _

_I never meant anything by it really. . . . .  
_

_. . . . .__Please deposit the requested amount. . . . .  
_

_Bring the you-know-what with you. . . . . ._

_. . . you can find me at the bottom of Sixth and Parker. . . .  
_

. . . . ._ for want of a nail. . . . .  
_

For want of a nail indeed. Moist turned back over, thinking. For want of a nail, a letter, something so small, you might never notice. Whose life would have been changed, for want of a letter? He thought of the grocer, married soon to his long lost love, love that should have been his fifty years ago. There were many love letters in this pile – he didn't have to hear them whispering to know that. Their _env_elopes were given little hearts on the back flaps and were adorned with various acronyms. S. W. A. L. K.

B.O.L.T.O.P.

M. L. O.

B. I. T. S.

S. T. A. R. D. U. S. T.

B. U. R. M. A.

All meant for lovers eyes only. How many of them were proposals, secret meeting times and places, life changing little notes that never found their way?

Moist was no matchmaker, but he was a romantic at heart.

He remembered his own life, spent conning small items of value from others. The man with the glass ring, a woman with a diamond tipped letter opener, a gentleman with a sash of silk. What objects had been gifts from friends? Who had been on their way to market to sell those items for food?

Who had he swindled out of a happy life for the want of a nail?

Moist shut his eyes and ears as best he could. He didn't want to think about that anymore.

* * *

_I'm regret to announce that this will be my last Discworld piece for a long while_.

_I began writing for Discworld to share a fandom with one of my best friends. He was a wonderful editor and for bouncing ideas off of and motivating me to write them. Since moving to another college, I have largely lost that influence and find it is continually harder to write fanfic at all. For want of a nail indeed.  
_

_I'm grateful for all the fantastic reviews I've gotten for this collection; indeed, for all of my Discworld work. The fandom here has left some of the most helpful and encouraging reviews of any of my stories and I don't want anyone to think I don't appreciate that by dropping out so suddenly. If I do manage to write more, I will continue to post it here, but I really can't promise anything. I can only promise to not stop trying._

_Thanks for the love. It's kept me going for a long time now and will continue to do so :)_

_- SilverInkblot  
_


	19. Stealing Life

Mildred Easy pulled up another handful of weeds from the ground surrounding her Gran's grave. It had been nearly a month. Her little brother should have been toddling around on tiny legs and babbling nonsense by now. She wiped at her eyes and grabbed at another handful of weeds obscuring the headstones.

The servants were more careful about what they took home now.

It wasn't stealing. It was practically part of their payment in all but written contract. There was an unspoken agreement between employer and servant that said taking leftover food was different from taking the silver. Taking candles was fine, but taking the candleholder was _wrong_. It wasn't something you could verbalize, or logically draw a line where Right and Wrong parted ways. Stealing was stealing.

No one cared – that was it. No one cared about a few leftovers. Taking things people actually cared about – that was stealing.

And someone had stolen her family.

She wiped her eyes again and continued ripping up weeds.

She was nearly finished when Reg Shoe shuffled by with his shovel.

"Excuse me, you dropped something important I think," Mildred reached over and grabbed the badge Reg had nearly left behind.

"Ah. Thank you. Can't go losing that now can I?" His eyes flicked over to the graves she had been cleaning. "I heard about your family. Mr. Vimes was right spare over it – it was crossing a line he said."

Mildred could only nod; she didn't want to break down in front of a stranger.

"The criminals were caught you know. If that makes you feel any better. They'll get what's coming to them."

"Good," her vehemence surprised her. "But it won't bring them back."

"No," Reg stuffed his badge back into his pocket. "But our concept of justice has never really been for the dead has it?"

* * *

"Mildred Easy?"

Mildred stood hurriedly. "Yes sir?" she said nervously. The Clerks were a quietly intimidating breed.

"Lord Vetinari would like to see you. As soon as you're finished of course."

Mildred glanced over at Mrs. Whitlow who nodded. Best not to keep His Lordship waiting.

She followed the clerk down a long hallway and waited patiently while he knocked on the door. "Mildred Easy to see you Your Lordship."

"Ah, Miss Easy. Do come in. Thank you Mr. Swift."

Mildred looked around nervously. His Lordship was seated comfortably behind a plain wooden desk. Next to him Commander Vimes stood looking angry as usual.

"Commander Vimes has been kind enough to inform me of the unfortunate consequences of the recent attempt on my life. It's a tragedy that one such as yourself should have to suffer for things that had nothing to do with you – "

There was a sudden banging in the hallway as of someone running. A Watchman burst through the door.

"Commander! We need you at Third Street! It's Carcer! He's – "

Vimes cursed and rushed out of the room, pausing only long enough to exchange a look with Vetinari. The Watchman raced after him, leaving Mildred alone in the room with Lord Vetinari, more nervous than ever.

"As I was saying Miss Easy," Vetinari brushed the incident aside like it happened every day. Maybe it did. "It's unusual for civilians to be caught in the crossfire of such a detailed, specific assassination attempt. But perhaps there's something we can do?"

"Sir?"

"I can't put a price on life Miss Easy. But surely there's something to be done? Is there anything you want? Anything you desire?"

Mildred understood what he was asking, but didn't really want to answer. But she did anyway.

"I want my family back."

Vetinari leaned back in his chair. "While my citizens may believe otherwise Miss Easy, I am not all powerful. I am very much mortal." He brushed his desk with long slim fingers. "Even I have my limitations."

"I'm sorry sir," Mildred felt very small. "But there's really nothing. I don't – there- "

"It's quite all right Miss Easy. But at the very least, I do offer my sincerest apologies and sympathies for your loss. It's an outcome I should have foreseen."

Mildred blinked. Vetinari stared at her over steepled fingers, silently.

It was a stunning admission. Vetinari was not infallible. His earlier words rang in her ears.

_I am very much mortal._

"Candles." She blurted it out before she could stop herself.

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"Could I – could I have some candles? I don't want anything else – only, it would be nice to have a little light to read by. And to – to light. For my Gran and brother."

"I see. Well Miss Easy. I think that can be arranged. Drumknott."

"Yes Milord."

"Do get right on that won't you?"

* * *

Mildred gripped at the last of the weeds; they had grown quite rapidly in the past year. They were tall enough now to obscure the names chiseled into the stone. The last of them gone, she reached into her bag and pulled out several candles. She set them around the headstones in a patter she found to be very pretty and fished out her matches. The flames grew brighter against the darkening sky as she lit the last one and nodded. Gran would have approved.

She sat a little longer, watching the smoke spiral up into the empty sky.

* * *

_I happen to have some serious reflections for this piece_. _But it's too long to post in an Author's Note, so I'll just put them on LiveJournal instead. Click the link in my profile page if you're interested.  
_

_I think it's kind of an interesting thought process, but, then again, I guess I would XD_

_Thank you for your continued patience with these. I'm going to try and start stockpiling my writing so when the dry spells become quite long, I'll still have something to post. So, no more updates for a little while again. I hope these are still enjoyable enough to warrant the long waiting periods._

_- SilverInkblot  
_


	20. Warmth

The snow fell gently upon the city of Ankh – Morpork, soft as a whisper, cold as – well, snow. The city toasted warmly under its natural blanket, sleepy and lethargic on Hogswatch Eve, rousing itself occasionally with the bangs and rumbles of any great city before rolling back over and snoring even louder than before. For once, all was more or less quite in the prime city of the Disc.

From the confines of his dark robe, Death reaches in and pulls out an hourglass, the sand on the top half dwindling steadily down to emptiness as the grains joined together into a single mass below.

Death watched the snow for a few moments more, marveling, for even Anthromorphic Personifications can be moved by simple things, remembering another time, another Hogswatch Eve night rather like this one before directing his attention to the job he was here for. A small, if cozy looking hovel nestled snugly between two larger homes and a plume of grey smoke rose from the tiny chimney like an invitation.

Death did not knock for he had no need, nor had he ever gotten the hang of working a doorknob. He melted through the door like a living shadow and emerged on the other side, scythe in hand.

* * *

The old woman was sitting in front of the fireplace, lightly rocking back and forth in her chair as she put the final touches on the pair of knit mittens in her lap. The squeak of the rocking chair made a lovely counterpoint to the click-clack of her needles and she hummed a little tune to go along with the melody. The mittens were decorated in the brightest colors she had been able to scavenge and were made for a tiny pair of hands, a child's hands. She re-wound the stream of yarn back into a ball and tucked her needles away into the burlap sack at her feet. The mittens would go to a child from the Beggar's Guild – they tended to be the worst off.

The fireplace crackled and the sparks jumped in the air as one of the logs finally snapped in two, heating the room with a sudden burst of warmth. The old woman smiled and closed her eyes, savoring her final moments of a long life as Death raised his scythe and _cut_.

* * *

He lifted a skeletal hand to help her from her chair. She did not appear to be frightened or confused, but merely _looked_ and wondered why it all felt so familiar. Death inclined his head gently, as if to acknowledge her unspoken question: _we have met before._

There was a definite familiarity to the encounter, but the woman couldn't place it. It felt like a name on the tip of her tongue, or that fancy foreign word she'd heard somewhere – déjà-vu. It felt like cold and snow and dying fires, like hypothermia and eyelids frozen shut, but it also felt like the promise of a warm place to wake up to.

She was fading, softly, like the last vestiges of snow dissolving in the sunlight. She smiled and reached for something only she could see, something far, far away, where the light was always golden and the children never had to peddle matches to survive. She turned for one last look at Death.

For some reason, she felt like he should be wearing a Hogfather hat.

* * *

Death watched as she dissolved completely, satisfied with a job well done. He left the same way he came, slipping through the wall like a phantom and back into the snow. He made his way down the cobblestone street, vanishing more and more with each step.

He left no footprints in the blank whiteness.

* * *

In the tiny hovel, the fireplace smoldered down to ashes as the final traces of light withdrew completely.

* * *

_The Match Girl was one of my favorite scenes in Hogfather ^^_

_- SilverInkblot_


	21. Performance Review

Eugene Watershed had a big mouth, and people always said it would get him into trouble one day. As it turned out, it was not his big mouth that killed him, but the lack of teeth contained (or rather, not contained) within. Chewing your food is essential to the digestive process and is helpful in finding all the bones before they get stuck halfway down your throat.

WOULD YOU LIKE A HAND? Death extended his skeletal fingers to help the man up.

"Ah, yes, thank you. I thought I'd crunched on something hard back there."

INDEED?

"Always said Lottie's cooking would be the death of me I did. All them vegetables you know, tryin' to feed me rabbit food."

IF IT'S NOT TOO MUCH TROUBLE Death interrupted, I WOULD BE MOST APPRECIATIVE IF YOU COULD FILL THIS OUT FOR ME. Eugene took the card Death was holding.

**_YOU ARE NOW LEAVING THE MORTAL PLANE._**

**_Please rate and comment on your transition below and have a nice afterlife!_**

**_1. Was the transition satisfactory?_**

**_2. Would you use our service again in the next life?_**

**_3. Was the timing correct? (for witches/wizards only)_**

"What's all this then?" Eugene didn't know much about what came after dieing, but he was fairly certain this had never been mentioned. "Is this that test thing you have to pass to get the good ending?"

THIS IS MERELY A FORMALITY. PAPERWORK. OUR, AH, INTERNAL BUREAUCRACY IS UNDERGOING SOME CHANGES AT THIS JUNCTURE IN TIME. I HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND.

"Oh yeah. My son, Irving you know, wonderful boy, pencil pusher up at the palace. Comes home to his Mille every night with armfuls of nothing but paper. Important stuff bureaucracy. Gotta take care of all the little things, then all the big things will take care of themselves."

Eugene nodded definitively. He was proud of his Irving, even if he hadn't taken over the family business. But blacksmithing just wasn't a suitable job for a man born to do office work, especially when your name was Irving. Thankfully, his second child Hilda was apt for the job by the time he became too old to lift anything heavier than a chicken leg.

MY JOB HAS NEVER REQUIRED SUCH DETAILED OVERVIEW. I HAVE ALWAYS BELIEVED MYSELF TO BE QUITE GOOD AT IT.

"Oh. I don't doubt that. You must have been doing it a long time."

I HAVE NEVER NOT DONE MY DUTY.

"Well," Eugene was starting to feel fuzz. "If there was a scale, I'd give you a five star rating Sir."

THANK YOU. BUT OUT OF HOW MANY?

"Oh, I don't know. Whatever scale restaurant critics use I suppose."

OF COURSE. GOODBYE MR. WATERSHED. Death grabbed the comment card from the air as the remaining substance that had been Eugene Watershed dissipated.

* * *

One said, He is too good at his job.

One said, Timing – impeccable! Transition – painless! Not a single negative point!

One said, He **has** been doing this a long time.

One said, It's more trouble than it's worth. We cannot accomplish anything this way.

One said, The scale was a nice touch though.

* * *

_I love Death, but I feel like I do too many oneshots for him :/_

_- SilverInkblot_


	22. Worthy Opponent

Picture if you will, a room. Not a large room, but neither too small. It is a rather plain room, but not without small decorative touches here and there to add a bit of interest, but by and large it is a practical room for a practical person. There is a window. There is a table in front of the window and a game board on the table. The opponents stare from either side.

"That," Vetinari tapped his fingers together. "Was an excellent move Miss Weatherwax."

Granny narrowed her eyes. She didn't trust compliments, especially in the heat of battle. If someone complimented you on the sharpness of your sword it meant they had a sharper one in the scabbard.

His eyes lingered on a piece. "However," he picked it up and moved it to a square on the opposite side of the board. "I believe I have a sufficient counterattack. He leaned back slightly in his chair as though to get a better view of the playing field. Were it made of a weaker material, the board would have splintered under the pressure of his scrutiny.

Granny studied the board no less carefully. He was a smart one. Oh yes, he was a smart one but – he wasn't playing to win. She could _feel_ it when people wanted to win and their desire left them wide open. He was almost completely removed from the situation, observer and player at the same time. She shifted a piece sideways. Blue eyes met black.

"Your move."

Play continued. _Click-clack._ Silence. Shuffle. Attack and defend, move for move.

"I notice Miss Weatherwax," Vetinari palmed one of her pieces now removed from play. "You seem distracted."

Granny countered. "I notice, your Lordship – you seem detached."

Vetinari chucked, almost to himself. "Astute observation Miss Weatherwax."

Granny didn't raise her voice, but there was a note of harshness. "Are you even playing the game?"

"Oh yes, I'm playing along. The question is, to which game are you referring?"

_Click-clack._

Granny watched the board, but considered her adversary. But to consider her adversary she had to consider herself – what he expected her to do and how to defy those expectations. He had already thought about what she would be thinking and _she_ was thinking about the thought processes he had already cycled through. Was that why he was so disconnected? She furrowed her brows in concentration and slid a piece across the board.

Vetinari was in fact, expecting her to win and by winning confirm what he already knew – that she hated to lose and would refuse to do so.

He smiled to himself. She could have the victory. He was content to settle for the game.

* * *

_Granny won't lose, but neither will Vetinari. A conundrum. But I see Vetinari as the type of person who enjoys playing games more than winning them. Winning just happens to be a pleasant side effect. And if you win too much, you run out of players._

_Requested by two different people - Ajac, ages and AGES ago, and by Virtuella for netting review number 50 on this collection : )_

_Enjoy guys - it's for you._

_- SilverInkblot  
_


	23. Merciful

Lord Vetinari rang for a servant – Wuffles had soiled the carpet again.

He picked up his terrier, long fingers brushing through his thinned fur. Wuffles shuffled deeper into his arms and made a noise that might have been called a whine, but was more akin to a whisper.

He moved on.

The kitchen staff of the Patrician's Palace employed one extra member more than a normal kitchen. It was that person's job to ensure Wuffles was always fed and fed with quality food. Meat was to be ground down for his broken teeth and bones removed to prevent a choking hazard. Wuffles had always enjoyed his mealtime.

Wuffles stared horizontally at his food dish, head resting on his paws. Vetinari picked up the food bowl and had a servant come to dispose of it.

He moved on.

It was hurting him to walk – even animals develop arthritis. He put each paw down stiffly and wobbled about as best he could, slowly making his way over to his usual position under Vetinari's desk. The padded dogbed and soft carpets no longer helped. Vetinari picked him up – Wuffles tried to lick his ear.

He moved on.

Arrangements were not made – some things you do yourself. He and his dog went for a long walk.

Some years later, he moved on.

* * *

_Vetinari is the sort of person that would put his own dog down if he thought his suffering was too much._ _A harsh reality perhaps, but I hope I did a missing scene justice._

_- SilverInkblot_


	24. Enough Time for Tea

The distressed pudding tasted better than he remembered.

It wasn't that the recipe had changed – he had just forgotten. Thirty years could do that to you. Decades of living off alcohol had a way of numbing your taste buds. You learned to eat anything that had a little meat on the bone when you were scraping the bottom of the barrel, or, in his case, the bottle.

"So you're Sam's new hero. It's good for a boy to have someone to look up to, especially in times like these," she took a sip from her chipped cup. She had offered the only unbroken mug in the house to Vimes.

"I'm no hero ma'am. Just doing my job."

She looked so young – no wrinkles yet adorned her face, no grey streaked hair in her tightly pulled bun. He felt his chest tighten; a few short years would see her grow old.

A few more would see her put in the ground.

He questioned his common sense in accepting his younger self's offer. The death of his mother – it wasn't long after that he began drinking. The desire for alcohol was strong now.

But he couldn't not see her. Not when he had the chance. Not for the world.

* * *

_Written for Discfest on LiveJournal._

_Now taking prompt ideas! I'm running low._

_- SilverInkblot_


	25. Shopping Carts in the Mist

There was a bustling of activity among the alleyways in the outskirts of Ankh-Morpork. Something squeaked its way along, steering around trash bins and stray cats, back to its hive. Another one turned from a different alley and followed. The two shopping carts rattled along, nearly crashing into another group rounding the corner but backed away just in time. The group went together to rejoin the colony.

The wire baskets bustled about with some intent invisible to any outside eye. The air buzzed with activity and purpose, but for what ends no one could possibly say. The carts lined up neatly, one behind the other and rattled their way to... wherever it was they were going. There was a clear social hierarchy in place; the smaller carts carried baubles and trinkets while the larger ones held heavier items like old books and lamps. Some held specialty items; baskets, scarves, porcelain dolls, chessboards, candles, glassware, pottery vases, bowls and plates, toys. A few carts held nothing at all; they gathered around each other, their wheels abnormally squeaky and the other carts left them alone. The hobo carts could barely drive a straight line – any work done by them had to be done twice over.

The incapacitated carts shambled along as best they could, most missing only one wheel, but a few only had two. They reported directly to the mall life form for their noble service that had cost them their pieces. One had replaced its missing wheel with a roll of tape dropped by another cart.

Occasionally a unit would be dispatched to go hunt down a straggler; they would return some hours later, stray cart in tow and shove it back into the fold after banging into it a few times. The drifter carts never got away for long.

* * *

_It is generally thought, on those worlds where the mall lifeform has seeded, that people take the wire baskets away and leave them in strange and isolated places, so that squads of young men have to be employed to gather them together and wheel them back. This is exactly the opposite of the truth. In reality the men are hunters, stalking their rattling prey across the landscape, trapping them, breaking their spirit, taming them and herding them to a life of slavery. Possibly._

_- Reaper Man  
_


End file.
